Speak Now
by P. A. Foreman
Summary: John is getting married to Mary Morstan and he has asked Sherlock to be his best man. Neither Sherlock or John are exactly sure how they feel about the other as they're always in the territory of the undefined. One of them better figure it out and speak now...Or forever hold their peace. John and Mary also get an unexpected wedding crasher... Based on a 3-min season 3 audio leak.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock: **

I'm investigating a case where three men went blind before falling over dead. I thought it was curious so Molly let me take the third man's eyes back to the flat with me. I wonder what John will choose to call this case on his blog. I think the title, "Three Blind Mice" would be amusing, but I'm sure John would find my idea insensitive. He does tend to think that of me quite a bit.

I remember the day I walked back into 221B Baker Street after my supposed suicide vividly. John cleared my name with some anonymous help from me. John would have never been able to prove Moriarty plotted to destroy my reputation without the help of a superior mind. I helped him solve the case, and I am now a free man.

How did I do it, you ask? Through my homeless network and with a key. Jim Moriarty is not as smart as I thought he was. Although that suicidal stunt he pulled was pretty clever…Almost as clever as my suicidal stunt. Moriarty shot himself in exactly the right way so that the bullet would miss his brain stem. He's still out there somewhere, plotting my downfall.

As for me, I made sure that a laundry truck appeared at exactly the right moment. I jumped into the truck instead of falling to my death. As for my body, I used the same trick the Dominatrix used, and Molly signed my death certificate. I am brilliant.

As always though, I was insensitive. I let John cry and shout at my grave while I stood idly by and watched him suffer. I should have trusted John, but me being me, I decided not to because of the margin of error. I trust John with my life, but there's always the chance that something could go amiss and I would be right back where I started. I couldn't take that risk, and I think John understood that. He understands things about me that I don't completely understand myself sometimes.

The day after John cleared my name, I crept past Mrs. Hudson into the flat John and I once shared together and that I hoped we would continue to share. I knew that there was a chance John would decide not to forgive me, but I hoped that he would not decide that. It would be idiotic to. I need John, and John clearly needs me. We give each other purpose.

I sat down on one of the armchairs and waited for John to come back from the surgery. While I waited, I observed the state of the flat. It was obvious that John was grieving. The piles of dirty laundry and unwashed dishes were a dead giveaway. He had not packed up my stuff, and it seemed that he's been reading our case files. Also, I saw that my other coat was hung one hook to the left of where it previously was, and the sleeves were rolled up because John's arms are considerably shorter than mine. I almost felt a pang of guilt, but the door creaked open and a hand hit the light switch.

Our eyes met and what ensued was one of the most spectacular displays of human emotion that I've ever seen. John displayed a mixture of fright, joy, grief, rage, and confusion in about ten minutes.

"Well, that was interesting," I said coolly after he finished. "I hope you understand, John, that I had to stay dead until my name was cleared for both of our safety."

"No, I understand. Shouldn't you be asking for something right now, though?" he asked.

"What?"

John looked at me incredulously. "You have caused me tremendous pain and grief. I thought my best friend was dead and gone forever! What do you think you ought to ask me for?"

I remembered. "Oh, yes." I cleared my throat. "John. Although my plan was necessary for my survival and possibly your survival, I have realized that I have caused you to feel a great deal of discomfort. I want to ask for your forgiveness and I believe that you should accept my apology because I did it to keep us safe and Moriarty is still out there plotting our downfall."

John gave me a wary look. "Close enough," he said. "Welcome back from the dead, mate. I need a drink, and then I am going to bed. I am exhausted."

I smiled when he wasn't looking, and then I picked up my violin. I had no case so my brain needed stimulation.

I realize that I drifted off and that the eye is staring at me. I narrow my eyes at it. _I can see right through you. I will understand the secrets you are hiding from me eventually. Just give them up now. _

My thoughts are interrupted by a screeching sound downstairs. I cringe and John walks in the door smiling.

"What is that noise downstairs?" I shout at John.

John eyes my eyeball and answers me. "That was Mrs. Hudson laughing."

"It sounds like an owl being tortured."

"No, it's laughter."

"Perhaps it's both."

John eyes my eyeball again. "…Busy?"

"Oh, this?" I wave the eyeball with dramatic flair and I lose my grip on it. It flies out of my hand into my coffee. I sigh. "It was for a case. Of course, I already know how they died, but it was just a way to occupy my time. You know how I am. I get bored easily."

John shrugs. "Okay. Tea? Or are you alright with your eyeball coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I answer him.

John puts his hands in his pockets, sits down, and commences to stare at me some more. He wants to ask me something, but he isn't sure how to ask.

"Do you have something to ask me, John? The anticipation is killing me."

"Yeah, yeah, I do. The best man?"

"The best man? The best man is very subjective. However, the best man does imply that the man is of moral importance so maybe the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize? It also could mean the most powerful man in the world, which means that it could be the president of the United States, perhaps?"

John interrupts me. "Sherlock! My wedding. I need a best man at my wedding."

"Oh," I reply, trying to think of a good match for John. "Gavin," I tell him.

"Who?" John asks, confused.

"Gavin Lestraude. He's a man and a competent one."

John shakes his head, and I tilt my head, confused. "It's Greg, and no! He's not my best man."

"Mike Stamford then," I say, eliminating Lestraude. "He's a good man."

"Yes, Mike's great! He's not my best man though."

John is staring at me, waiting for me to come up with another suggestion, but John doesn't have an abundance of close friends…Whoever could be left?

"The biggest, most important day of my life…"

"Hmm…" Are they really? I could think of several more important days…

"Sherlock!" John exclaims. "It is...Don't try to rationalize your way out of this one." I groan. "Just think about it. The two people I care most about in the world…"

"Yes?"

"Mary Morstan…"

"Yes?" I wish he would just say it. He's got me stumped on this one.

"And…" he continues, trying to drag it out as long as possible.

"And?"

"You."


	2. Chapter 2

**John: **

Sherlock is speechless, and that doesn't happen very often so I'm concerned. I'm also worried that he'll decide to not be my best man. I just gaze at him quietly and wait for him to regain his speech.

Sherlock stutters back to life. "Y-you mean…"

"Yes," I reply succinctly.

"I'm your…" Sherlock continues. "Best—"

"Man," I finish for him.

"Friend?"

_He didn't know that? _I look at him curiously for a while. A flush of warmth spreads through me when I am sure that what he's asked me is the truth. "Of course," I answer. "Of course you're my best friend."

He takes a gulp of his coffee and spits the eyeball back into his cup, gazing at me over the porcelain. He doesn't smile, but I know he's happy behind his façade. "John," he starts. "I have never been a best man, or a best friend. Friendship has always been beyond my world of logic, but I will do my utmost." He holds out his hand.

I curl my fingers around his boney hand and shake it. "I know you will. Thanks for doing this."

"I wouldn't be thanking me just yet. I am still not sure how to be…A best man. I might fail you. Don't become a victim of false hope."

"I won't be a victim. Being a best man isn't that difficult. It might be relatively tough for the great Sherlock Holmes, but I'm sure even you can handle it."

He narrows his eyes. "What will I be required to do, John?"

"The best man is supposed to help out with the wedding, but I am most certainly not leaving the wedding planning to you. That would be a disaster. So all I require of you is to write a speech that you would deliver at the rehearsal dinner and wedding party, and to just stand next to me in the ceremony."

"What kind of speech?"

"That's up to you. I suggest that it be about our friendship, and make sure to include something about Mary and I's future together," I say. "Oh, and try to make it at least positive. I know asking for heartfelt is a lot. Also, don't go off analyzing us or anybody at the wedding, got it?"

"Alright. Like I said before, I will do my utmost, and that's all I can give you."

"Fine."

"Fine…"

"Alright then. Let me take that cup of coffee," I offer, taking it from Sherlock's hands. "Will Molly miss the eyeball?"

"Probably not. I solved the case easily. They were all classically conditioned, and the killer left his pen behind."

"Right. I'll just put this in the garbage disposal."

I walk to the kitchen and I hear someone knocking on our door. Of course, Sherlock has picked up his violin and doesn't bother to answer the door so I answer it after getting rid of the eyeball.

Mrs. Hudson is standing there with an envelope in her hand. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, a man dropped by with a letter for you and Sherlock." She hands me the envelope. "Did Sherlock say yes to being your best man?"

"Yes, he did, Mrs. Hudson." I tell her. "If you start laughing again…"

She giggles. "I'm sure Sherlock will be a spectacular best man." She walks away, her giggles turning into laughter.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson! He will be!" I shout after her. I shut the door and sigh, a little irritated. I turn my attention back to the letter and see that it's addressed to "Sherlock and John." I interrupt Sherlock's violin concerto.

"Sherlock! We've got a letter from someone."

He snatches it from my hands and opens it himself. "John…It's an invitation to your wedding."

"What?" I snatch it back from Sherlock, and sure enough, it's the yellow and white invitation Mary and I sent out to our friends and family. I'm perplexed, but once I look at the other side, I gasp. I show it to Sherlock and his eyes widen.

_Thanks for the invite!_

_-Moriarty_


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock: **

"Well, Sherlock. It looks as if you can help out with the wedding after all," John says. "Your first duty as the best man: prevent Moriarty from destroying my wedding." His placid face turns into one of frustration. He throws the invitation to the floor very aggressively. "God!" he yells, weaving his fingers into his hair. "Not even my bloody wedding day is safe!"

I pick up the invitation and look at it doing what I do best: investigating. John is a surgeon. Therefore, he handles things gently—even when he is upset. Moriarty is in-hiding so it's unlikely that he would deliver it himself…He probably had one of his minions deliver it because it is also unlikely that he would trust the postman with a letter of high importance. I took a look at the envelope before John and I started passing it back and forth, and the envelope was creased by a fairly large thumb and it was slightly damp with sweat. The delivery man came from not too far away. If he took a trip by car or even a longer walk, the letter would have had minimal damage to it because it would have been stored in a pocket or glove compartment. The wax used to seal the envelope was still fresh and flexible.

"John, the letter was delivered by one of our new neighbors. Moriarty is most likely using the houses as sanctuaries," I inform him.

"Okay," John sighs. "Let's get down to business. Sure. Let's ask Mrs. Hudson if she saw the deliveryman's face."

"Yes, let's do that." I stride ahead of John and seek out Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes, boys?" her voice calls from the kitchen. I follow the voice, and she's heating a kettle of tea on the stove. "I thought we should have some tea to celebrate your being best man." "There is no time for tea, Mrs. Hudson! John's wedding is being sabotaged!" I inform her with my usual flair.

"Oh, dear. Is that true?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Unfortunately, it is. This letter told me so," John answers, taking out the letter. "We were hoping you might be able to tell us who delivered the letter."

"I can tell you. It was one of the men who recently moved on our block. I can't remember his name, but I believe he lives at the corner house to the left."

"I was right, it was one of our new neighbors, John," I say.

"Of course."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be off. Come along, John." I walk out the door and I hear John scrambling to catch up behind me. He does have awfully short legs.

"Sherlock," John calls. "What exactly are we going to do when we find the deliveryman?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Moriarty does seem the type to be smugly awaiting our arrival, so we shall see." John and I approach the house, and of course, it looks neglected. Moriarty's minions don't seem to be very clean people. I pound on the door and it opens almost immediately.

"Expecting us?" I ask him.

"My boss said you two would be coming around," the huge man confirms. Judging by his race, his accent, and how he reeks of vodka, he seems to be from the poorer regions of Eastern Europe. Most likely, he made his way to England looking for a job, but he cannot legally get one as he's an immigrant so he turned to a life of crime. While being a criminal, he managed to meet the consulting criminal, Moriarty, and was recruited to work for him.

"Where is your boss?" John asks. "We would like to talk to him."

"He left, but he told me to give this to you two when you showed up." The man hands me another envelope. "Good day," he says before slamming the door on our faces.

"Well, that's that then," John states. "What's in the envelope?"

I break the wax seal and pull out another yellow and white slip of paper. "Looks like an invitation to your wedding rehearsal." I hand the piece of paper to John and he narrows his eyes at the words on the back.

_Shall we do a practice round?_

_-Moriarty_


	4. Chapter 4

**John: **

"And not even my rehearsal is safe," I groan, rubbing my eyes. "Should've known."

"No, this will be excellent," Sherlock says. "We can try to arrest Moriarty at the rehearsal, and if he somehow gets away, then we know the flaws in our plan."

"Sherlock…Moriarty is probably the only person in the world that is as insanely smart as you. If he wants to bring my rehearsal _and _my wedding down, he's going to find a way to bloody do it. Hell, he might as well catch Mary's bouquet too."

"John…"

"Then we're going to have to be smarter than him," I start again. "We're two people, two minds. Two is better than one. We will find a way to beat Moriarty. He's not going to destroy my personal life."

"John, although your optimism is inspiring, it would be considerably less difficult if you postponed or even called off the wedding—"

I cut Sherlock off. "No. Mary and I will have a wedding. Period."

"Why...?"

"Because Sherlock!" I shout. "I need to prove that…that I have a life outside of the world of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes are blank, but I can see something close to emotion behind his eyes. The world behind them is safely closed away behind a veil that is opaque only to me. To everyone else on the planet, it is solid—impenetrable and unknowable. "This Mary," he finally says. "Why must you marry her?"

"Sherlock, when you were gone, I…Fell apart. My limp came back, I stopped going to work, I stopped eating, I stopped living. Mary was the one who brought me back from the dead, and I didn't think that was possible."

"No…When I came back, the flat was in chaos. You were obviously still grieving."

"I know. I died twice."

"What do you mean, John?"

I chuckle softly. "I died twice. Mary brought me back the first time. You brought me back the second time."

I look at Sherlock and he's deducting away, trying to figure out why I died a second time.

"The violin, Sherlock. You came back for the fucking violin, but not for me. No," I look up at him, tears sliding down my cheeks.

"John—"

I cut him off. "I think that was even more crushing then when you actually died, because you were still alive in my heart. When I saw that the violin was missing, I knew you were alive, but I also thought that you couldn't care less about me or any other human being, so you died in my heart. When you came back though, I thought things could finally be different."

"I never thought you would notice, John."

"You didn't think I would notice because you didn't put emotion into the equation. That violin is important to you so therefore it's important to me."

"Am I…Important? Important to you?" Sherlock asks, gazing into my eyes, tumultuous indifference in his.

"You always will be. You're me best man for god's sake! I just don't want you to be important to me." I sigh, shaking my head. I stomp into 221B Baker Street, leaving Sherlock with his thoughts…Or deductions. I'm not entirely sure he has thoughts. Thoughts are free, and his mind is so organized. His mind is nothing like mine—with its chaos and emotional irrationality. Certain emotions that I don't want to feel rise to the surface, but I lock—or Sherlock—them away in some deep, dusty corner where I hope they'll be forgotten.

They won't be though. They struggle free of their chains over and over again, and I'm almost ready to let them stay for good.

Almost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock: **

It's approximately 11:08 at night, and I know Mrs. Hudson will be asleep. I grab the hide-a-key from underneath the doormat. I already know where it is because Mrs. Hudson pointed it out to me when I moved into the flat, but hide-a-keys are always just keys to me. Everything that's supposed to be hidden is in plain sight. One corner of the rug is slightly creased, and you can tell that a small gust of air blows dust and leaves so that the concrete surrounding that corner is relatively clean.

I slide the key into the lock and the door cracks open. I lift the same corner of the doormat and I put the key back in its place. I am coming back for the violin. For the violin and _only _the violin because the violin helps me think.

I step in the house and I look at the kitchen. All dishes are put away and I can hear Mrs. Hudson's light snores. Mrs. Hudson is asleep. I head upstairs to the flat John and I used to share. I suppose we are still sharing it. It's like I never left. My papers are still scattered around the place, my equipment is exactly as I've left it. That must mean the violin is still in the same place—by the window next to my music stand.

I look at the unwashed dishes and notice that the food on them is crusty and dry. John has not come back for the night. That means he might be here any minute, but I linger. I smell fancy cologne and I see that his nicer jacket is not on the coat rack. John is out on a date.

A grieving John's flat would have stacks of unwashed dishes instead of just two or three. A grieving John's flat would be dusty and it would smell horrid. The usually tidy John would have fallen apart because people don't have the energy to be themselves when they lose someone.

I notice that the door to my room is cracked open and I left it closed. I investigate and find that my pillow has moved to the right side of the bed. John tucked the corners of the comforter beneath the mattress, but I only tuck in the sheets. John has been sleeping in my room. I leave my room and walk to get what I came for—the violin—and I notice other things. Three people have been here since I've left. Molly, a man that is probably Lestraude, and another woman that I do not know. She could possibly be the woman John is out on a date with…I can see a gift tossed away in a corner, forgotten. A tie. Only a woman would buy John a tie.

I pick up the violin case. I open it to see if the rosin and bow are still where I left them, and they are. I close the two clasps and when I close the last one, I can hear the sound of laughter from outside the front door. John is here and he's going to catch me stealing my own violin.

No, no he won't. The woman is laughing too loud. John is not that funny, even when he's drunk. That means the woman is tipsy too. They're not stumbling up the stairs, so they are not too drunk. That means John will come into the living room, offer a seat to his date, and then go pour them more alcohol. I go to the corner by the bathroom. John and his date will never see me and I will slip out and disappear into the night as they sip their wine.

The door crashes open. I jerk my head and see that the source of the noise is John and his date. They are kissing each other quite fiercely. John looks at her voraciously, and the woman is gasping like a fish out of water. They stop kissing each other for a moment. John holds her face in his hands. I'm sure his fingers are sticky because her dark hair seems slick with hair product.

"I think—I think I love you, Mary," John pants.

On her face for just a brief second is surprise, but then it turns into false confidence, which turns into lust. I glace at her shoes. Four-inch high heels. She's insecure, but she knows she's appealing to men.

"I love you too, John," she finally says. They head towards John's bedroom and I slip into the darkness of the bathroom. I see that John still respects me, but why do I feel lost inside? I am thinking too fast. I head out of the flat, confident that I am safe. I stride out onto the street and I pull out the violin.

I got the violin, and I wanted _only _the violin. I put the rosin in my pocket, take the bow out of the case, and I throw the case into the bushes. I walk back to my hideout playing Beethoven's _Pathetique_. It's supposed to be a slow piece, but I play it _prestissimo_—very fast. How did I not see that John and his date would go straight to the bedroom?

How? My deductions are never incorrect…Never.

And suddenly, I'm in broad daylight in front of 221B Baker Street. _Because you didn't put emotion into the equation._ John's voice echoes in my mind. A small voice speaks up though, and it rings loud and clear in my skull. _Because you didn't come just for the violin. _

I came for you, John. You're my best friend, and my best man. I came for you.


End file.
